


A Bone to Pick

by Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold (manka)



Series: Manka Writes Friend Fiction [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Mage Hawke (Dragon Age), Mutual Pining, Other, Pre-Relationship, genderless Hawke! you pick your pronouns for this story, idiots to lovers, inclusivity is sexy, so is respecting Fenris, the whole gang loves and supports FenHawke here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27743761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manka/pseuds/Cartadwarfwithaheartofgold
Summary: Fenris and Hawke's night together took a turn for the worse that leaves Fenris reeling and uncertain of his place at Hawke's side.Hawke and the gang make sure he knows he's wanted no matter what.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke, Fenris/Non-Binary Hawke
Series: Manka Writes Friend Fiction [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022509
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	A Bone to Pick

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Kourvo, who won 1st place in my Friend Fiction Giveaway! Thank you so much for participating and being awesome to work with! <3 And thank you for this wonderful inclusive idea that is all yours!

Fenris woke with a hammering heart and the taste of blood in his mouth.

It spurred him into movement without a second thought. He rolled from the lumpy mattress and to his feet and scooped the blade from where it leaned against the wall. His eyes scanned every dark corner for hidden danger.

The realization he had been tricked by sleep and the Fade into acting like a fool upon waking left a sour taste on his tongue. He placed the blade back where he found it, closing his eyes and focusing on the cold air filling his lungs.

The dream lingered in disturbing fragments that couldn’t be twisted into a cohesive story. He was left, as always, with disjointed images that made little sense. He recalled crimson blood swirling in muddy water, a picture that bled into a room with stars painted on the ceiling where screams rang across the elaborate tile, before the denouement where Fenris ran.

He ran, and ran, and _ran_.

And yet, he never escaped. Something always caught him with grasping claws or silky hands and dragged him into the shadows. He was helpless to change the story, no matter how he tried.

A foolish notion. All of it.

After all, he stood in his old master’s mansion among expensive items left behind when Fenris murdered the men sent to snatch him back. When he opened his eyes, the clutter of Fenris’ life surrounded him, mixed with the priceless objects of art he had not yet sold or broken. His blade, his armor, his coin purse, a stack of creamy parchment he feared to mar with the jewel-black ink beside it, borrowed and bought and stolen books, and-

Fenris’ eyes lit on a bright slash of crimson next to the books and his stomach flipped.

 _Hawke’s scarf_.

Instantly, the nightmare was forgotten, swallowed by the abyss of regret and guilt chewing at everything inside of him.

 _Hawke_.

Fenris was a fool, one who’d shattered the heart of one of the few people who showed him nothing but kindness and understanding. In his wild attempts to flee his past, he ruined the small happiness he found here, and he couldn’t blame anyone else for it.

_“Fenris, we can talk about it. I’m here for you. You don’t have to leave.”_

_“I am sorry. I should never have come here. It was a mistake.”_

Fenris felt ill. How long had it been since he left the Amell Estate in the middle of the night like a thief with nothing but the sound of Hawke’s cracking voice echoing in his ears? He made it the whole way back to his stolen manor and shut the door behind him before he looked down and saw that red scarf clutched tightly in his gauntleted fist.

He had not left the manor since, he had no reason to. Where was he to go, now that he would no longer be welcome in Hawke’s merry band of misfits? In truth, his only option was to leave Kirkwall behind and start over elsewhere.

Running. Again.

It tasted bitter for more than one reason.

Fenris bent at the waist and retrieved the scarf from where he’d left it the night before. He ran it through his sword rough fingers again, staring at the bright scarlet fabric, thinking of it tucked around Hawke’s warm neck.

The same neck bared to his teeth, the one Fenris trailed hungry kisses down before he ruined it, as he was always meant to. Hawke was… better than Fenris was. Better than he could ever be. Fenris knew that.

He told himself he would pack up his items and begin the arduous task of planning his newest retreat as soon as he dressed, just as he promised himself he would every day since.

Inaction was death, he knew that better than anyone, and yet the thought of moving on… he had born worse pain. The marks on his skin were testament to it, but…

The banging on the door drew Fenris from his thoughts with the same violence of the knocking. His shoulders hunched up in immediate defense, waiting for the inevitable sound of the door being knocked off its hinges followed by the babble of accented voices that made his blood run cold.

Would anyone notice he had been taken? Would anyone notice his absence?

Another blistering knock at the door, punctuated with a familiar voice calling his name. “Fenris!”

He never thought he’d rather face slavers until he heard Hawke’s voice at the door.

The scarf fell from his fingers to the cold stone beneath his feet. He stared over his shoulder, stunned into stillness.

“Fenris! Are you up there?”

 _Fasta vass,_ why was Hawke here? Why _now_?

Fenris padded across the room, retrieving a discarded shirt and throwing it over his skin before slinking through the dark manor. The door rattled in its frame again just as he descended the stairs.

“Venhedis!” Fenris blurted out impatiently, reaching for the door and wrenching it open. “What-”

Whatever he expected, it was not the group waiting outside the door. Hawke stood on his doorstep, all dark hair and wary, but kind gray eyes. At each elbow stood Varric and Isabela.

Fenris noted them, their presence, the weapons on their backs, but his eyes were drawn to Hawke instead.

 _Hawke_. Here, in front of him, wearing the same soft smile Fenris had come to expect. The one Fenris expected to never see again.

“Shame,” Isabela drawled, waggling her eyebrows suggestively and breaking the awkward silence. “I thought for sure you slept naked.”

“Rivaini, you think _everyone_ sleeps naked,” Varric sighed.

“Cause they should! Time is money, Varric.”

Varric coughed pointedly, swinging his eyes between Fenris and Hawke. “Speaking of, isn’t there some awful mine we’re supposed to be cleaning deepstalkers out of?”

Hawke blinked once. Twice. Then Hawke ripped those gray eyes from Fenris’ face and looked down at the cobblestones.

“Right. Sorry, I should have come by yesterday to make sure you remembered. We… we talked about going to the Bone Pit? You said you didn’t mind helping out?” Hawke asked uncertainly.

“Which is in stark contrast to us,” Isabela gestured to Varric with a wry smirk.

Varric chuckled. “ _We_ didn’t volunteer, and we’re the two on time. Typical.”

The Bone Pit. They’d arranged this job a week ago. _Before_ that night where everything changed, and yet…

Hawke looked up, determination flashing across rough Ferelden features. “If you’re still up for it, I want you to come.”

Fenris stared at Hawke’s lips, disbelief bleeding through the shock. “You… you truly wish me to accompany you?”

Hawke’s lips tipped up into a wry smirk. “You’re not getting out of the Bone Pit that easily, besides, you’re one of us.”

_One of us._

“I need a moment,” Fenris stated, stepping back into his mansion.

Varric waved Fenris away, turning towards the bustling Hightown traffic. “Take your time, Broody. We’ll see how many people we can pickpocket before you get back.”

Isabela cackled. “Varric, you know how to get a woman’s blood pumping.”

Fenris watched them sashay away together before his eyes flicked back to Hawke to find that those eyes had never stopped studying him for a moment.

“For a moment, I was worried you’d left without saying goodbye,” Hawke admitted.

“I apolog-”

“Don’t,” Hawke interrupted quickly. “Don’t apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong, Fenris. I’m glad you’re still here.”

Fenris didn’t know what to say, all he could do was swallow and stare into the sorrowful gaze of his closest companion. His truest friend. His…

Fenris dared not say, not even to himself.

“I am glad I am as well,” he admitted instead.

The blinding grin Hawke gave him was worth it. “I’ll wait here then and keep an eye on those two. Try and be quick, for the sake of my sanity.”

Fenris smirked in return. “I will attempt to return before they are apprehended by the city guard.”

He retreated back into the mansion to the sound of Hawke’s laughter. The echoes of it illuminated the dark corners of the rooms he dove through _and_ the shadowy chambers of Fenris’ heart.

His armor was where he’d left it the night before, and Fenris reached for it immediately, but was stopped short by the flash of red in the corner of his eye. Hawke’s scarf where it had fallen, bereft, on the floor.

Fenris retrieved it, winding it through his long fingers, listening to the boisterous conversation just outside his door and feeling his troubled thoughts ease.

Perhaps he hadn’t ruined everything. Not yet, at any rate.

Whatever happened, Fenris would never hurt Hawke, not again, not like _that_. Not when Hawke was the very last person, mage or no, that deserved it.

Fenris wrapped the scarf around his wrist and knotted it with his teeth, staring grimly at the red fabric against his tanned and scarred skin.

It was a promise Fenris intended to keep, no matter the cost.

* * *

Kirkwall’s least reputable tavern had never appeared more packed. Fenris needed to shove his way through the crowd of unwashed bodies to the stairs, holding his breath until his feet touched the first step. Even then, he needed to weave past the man who always seemed to be talking to himself and one of the many surly waitresses that cycled through The Hanged Man before they found better opportunities elsewhere.

On one hand, Fenris appreciated Varric’s pointed thumbing of every expectation placed upon him.

On the other, Fenris wished he chose a slightly better establishment to play the pauper prince in.

Still, the noise of the crowd, the baritone of Corf’s shouting at his cook, the smell of over boiled cabbage… it seemed familiar. Oddly comforting.

Until, just before reaching Varric’s door, Fenris felt his bare foot splash into a puddle of lukewarm ale.

“Venhedis,” he grumbled, picking his foot up and examining the liquid covering his skin with distaste.

 _Why_ did they insist on having these games here, in Lowtown, when Hawke owned a perfectly serviceable house?

As he considered that important question, a rather more inane one drifted through the oak door separating Fenris from Varric’s suite.

“But where does Fenris get all the money for when we play cards?” Merrill chirped.

It would be his luck, he would arrive with plenty of time to be needled by the blood mage while waiting for the rest of the group to trickle in.

“Fenris works, Kitten. He’s been helping Aveline with some bounties-”

Well, at least Isabela was present. If he had to choose between her outrageous innuendo and Merrill’s babble…

“But elves are always paid less unless we’re with Hawke or if Varric gets us the job. And Fenris won’t let Varric help him.”

Glasses clinked and Varric chuckled. “Not for lack of trying. But Broody doesn’t spend all his coin on whatever weird shit you’re having me track down for your mirror, Daisy.”

“The varghest scales weren’t terribly hard to find, were they?”

“Not for me, Daisy.”

Merrill sighed. Fenris could picture her tapping her lips with one pointed and scarred finger before she spoke again. “But Fenris is hiring all those people to investigate leads in Tevinter for him. That can’t be cheap either.”

“It’s not, Kitten,” Isabela broke in wickedly. “He borrows coin from Hawke to come play.”

Fenris stiffened immediately, pride prickling.

“But Fenris loses it to you every week, doesn’t he? That’s not very smart of Hawke.”

Varric laughed. Fenris heard his knuckles rap on the table. “Hawke likes an investment to be spiky and scowly, apparently.”

The sound of a palm slapping a shoulder, breath hissing through Isabela’s teeth in a shushing sound that seemed to silence the entire tavern downstairs as well as both people inside the suite.

“Some things are worth more than coin,” Isabela murmured. “You’ll see, Kitten.”

A poignant moment of silence. Fenris felt his heart thud unevenly in his throat.

Then booted feet heavy on the steps behind him and a delighted shout. “Fenris! I’m not late, am I?”

Hawke’s sunny grin caused his stomach to flip. Fenris quickly reached for the door, shoving it open on the three frozen figures inside. Hawke bustled past him cheerfully, shooting that same smile at all their friends.

“I told Nora to send some snacks up, Anders isn’t eating again. I’m glad you made it Merrill.”

“I don’t have money! But Isabela said I could watch her play.”

Hawke’s lips twitched at the edges, a hint of amusement. “A bold strategy, Bela. We’ll see how it goes.”

Fenris knew how it would go. The witch would give away all of Isabela’s cards with her ridiculous questions. Fenris, typically, would be annoyed by the chatter. However, with Isabela at a disadvantage, he may actually win some of the coin he owed Hawke back.

“Here Daisy, I’ll cover you a couple rounds,” Varric offered magnanimously.

Fenris scoffed while Hawke pulled out a chair, the noise drawing Hawke’s eyes. “Where are you sitting, Fenris?”

“Right here, handsome,” Isabela winked lewdly in his direction, patting the chair between her and Hawke. He rolled his eyes while he strode around the table before folding himself into the sturdy seat.

Varric did have fine taste in furniture, Fenris would give him that.

Isabela’s keen gaze rested on Fenris’ features. He met her speculative, shrewd look with a raised brow.

“You’re adorable, you know.” Isabela purred, resting her chin on her hands. “Absolutely _precious_.”

“Is this where you tell me how pretty my eyes are?” He asked wearily.

With a cackle and a quick flick of her eyes from Fenris to Hawke behind him, Isabela kicked back in her chair.

“I’m certainly not the only one who thinks so, handsome. Mark my words.”

Fenris opened his mouth to argue, but Merrill broke in excitedly. “Oh! Nora thinks Fenris has pretty eyes. She also said something about his mouth being good for reciting the forbidden chant but I don’t know-”

“Merrill!” Hawke choked on the witch’s name, almost spilling the ale over the sides of the tankard in haste to stop her.

Merrill blinked her own jewel bright eyes slowly. “What?” she asked the grinning faces of Isabela and Varric and the significantly less amused expression Fenris wore. “Have I missed something dirty again?”

* * *

The paper looked better before Fenris ever touched it. He drew back, disgusted, to look at the unsteady letters trailing across the formerly pristine surface. Varric’s handwriting was always neat and tidy, Hawke’s at the very least seemed _confident_ , but the letters Fenris wrote looked as uncertain as he felt.

It was a simple note of instruction to his agent in Minrathous, the one seeking hints of Varania. It was _vitally_ important that it be perfect, every word correct. He cast his eyes across them once more anxiously.

The room itself was cold. Freezing. He could see his breath in the air in soft puffs of condensation, but it felt wasteful to throw a log onto the fire so early in the day. He would likely be leaving, so he may as well suffer the cold now while he agonized over his letter.

Perhaps he should have asked Hawke or Varric for their assistance, but if he had the skill to do this, he _had_ to prove himself. If he could not do this simple task for himself he was-

Before his thoughts could spiral into self-loathing, something thumped solidly at his window. He looked up quickly, splattering ink over the parchment in his haste to see _what_ had just been thrown at his window.

He growled both at the mess and the wet, icy mess against his window. Tossing his quill onto the ruined letter, Fenris stood and stalked to the window. He scowled out of it into a scene like nothing he’d ever seen.

He knew ice magic, knew the way it made his lyrium brands ache and the way it could bring an enemy to its knees, but _this_ couldn’t be magic. His brands didn’t pulse painfully, but frost and thick, soft ice crystals covered every surface.

Fenris blinked in stunned disbelief before his gaze swung down to the dark haired, bundled figure below.

“Fenris!” Hawke called, spinning on a booted heel and throwing arms out to indicate the enchanted scene. “Look!”

“I am looking,” Fenris replied wryly. “What is… this?”

He reached out to touch the white mounds of ice, scooping them in his tanned fingers. They immediately began to melt against his skin and he let it drop back to the windowsill.

“Snow!” Hawke’s declaration rang too loudly against all the neighboring houses. Aveline would be by later, certainly, to inform him he was existing too loudly once again.

But he couldn’t find it in his heart to tell Hawke to be quiet, not when Fenris had never seen such utter delight dancing in those soft gray eyes. Instead, Fenris leaned on the windowsill and peered down, watching Hawke scoop up more of the snow and form it into a neat ball.

“Come down!” Hawke implored. “We’ll go to the Hanged Man and get Varric and Isabela and have a snowball fight.”

“A snowball fight.” Fenris repeated, the words unfamiliar on his tongue. Hawke grinned wickedly and launched the ball into the air. It sped toward the window, hitting just right of it and shattering into a cloud of glittering white particles.

“Scared, Fenris?” Hawke asked from below. “I’ll take it easy on you, promise.”

Fenris smirked. “I see no need for you to do so.”

Hawke’s laughter warmed him better than a hundred logs on the fireplace could. He ducked inside, letter and aggravation forgotten. He paused only long enough to throw his armor on and sling the heavy blade over his shoulder before he stepped into the cool, clear morning.

“You’ve never seen snow, have you?” Hawke asked breathlessly, holding out another perfectly formed ball for Fenris’s perusal.

Fenris took it with no small amount of curiosity, examining it closely. “I have not. It is not something we had in Tevinter.”

“Doesn’t seem to happen often up here,” Hawke admitted. “But we got snow in Ferelden all the time. Every winter. It was glorious.”

The skeptical look on Fenris’ face said everything he needed to without him needing to say a word. Hawke shrugged apologetically. “It’s like when I was young, you know? Snow on the trees. Dogs barking outside. Frozen mud.”

“You are correct,” Fenris managed to keep a straight face, but only barely. “It does sound glorious.”

Hawke simply waved his sarcasm away. “You’d have to be Ferelden to get it.”

“Perhaps,” Fenris agreed as they began to walk. Hawke hummed joyfully in the silence, arms swinging back and forth while bright eyes took in the scenery.

“Do you miss it? It was your home, after all.” Fenris wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he also felt the perverse need to know, even if it hurt to know Hawke had loved, and lost, something Fenris could never even know.

Hawke only smiled and hummed an off-key note before answering. “It was. But home is where your family is, your friends. Kirkwall’s home now, for better or for worse.”

Hawke paused, gray eyes sparking with mischief. “Less barking dogs here, at any rate. Not sure that’s a _good_ thing, though.”

“And I am your… friend?”

The words were out before Fenris could stop them, as if he had no control over them. Hawke was always like that, lowering Fenris’ walls until he acted on instinct instead of intellect.

Hawke stopped short, shooting Fenris a perplexed and wary look. “Of course you are. I… we wouldn’t be the same without you.”

 _Friends_. That word tasted bitter, but Fenris knew he was the only one to blame.

“You would certainly have less limbs,” Fenris added wryly.

Hawke’s relief was palpable in the lowering of shoulders and the easy smile shining once more.

“You’re right as always,” Hawke agreed. “C’mon. You can save my ass in a snowball fight too.”

* * *

Why was it always blood magic cultists?

Perhaps there were no other kind of cultist, at least in Kirkwall. Every time one of these insane groups popped up, there was always a blood mage at the center summoning demons and corrupting all they touched.

“Oh!” Merrill chirped. “Is that the artifact they were worshipping?”

And yet there was still one blood mage standing in the carnage with a sunny smile, blood smeared on her cheek, hands clasped as if asking for a present. Fenris did not know whether to laugh or scream.

If there was a Maker, as Sebastian said, he was surely laughing.

Varric sighed. “Just once, I’d like to find the artifact and for it to look suitably impressive.”

“It’s an ancient urn, Varric.” Merrill explained patiently. “It’s… well, I suppose it does look like a rubbish bin, doesn’t it?”

“At the very least there should be some weird, obscure curse. And a dragon.”

Merrill frowned. “Oh. That would make it a much better story, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t worry Daisy,” Varric winked, “When I tell it, I’ll throw a dragon in.”

“Perhaps we should complete the job first.” Fenris suggested acidicly.

Varric merely laughed. Hawke’s response was to shoot Fenris an imploring look that had ‘be patient’ inscribed in every line.

Fenris merely crossed his arms over his breastplate and raised one eyebrow, a silent statement that he could make no promises for how long he’d suffer this amount of foolishness.

Hawke grinned, swaggering away towards the altar and the urn on top. Fenris watched his friend with the same peculiar mix of longing and pride he always felt.

Nobody moved like Hawke did, nobody else possessed the easy confidence and sure steps of a person who was aware of their place, steady within it. Steady enough, possibly, to shoulder all the world's problems.

Even when they were too heavy to bear. _Especially_ when they were too heavy to bear.

“But Varric,” Merrill began, tipping her head to the side. “A dragon wouldn’t fit in this warehouse.”

Fenris smirked, eyes on Hawke while Varric answered. “If you tell it well enough, Daisy, nobody even stops to ask how the dragon got into the warehouse.”

Hawke’s gauntleted fist reached out and plucked the urn up and shook it experimentally. At least his friend was smart enough to leave the lid firmly closed, trapping whatever demon the cultists had hoped to release.

Hawke turned back to the scene, warm eyes skipping over Varric and Merrill to land right on Fenris.

The warm glow they brought wasn’t unwelcome at all. Fenris felt himself smile in return.

Then his eyes slid over Hawke’s shoulder and his blood froze in his veins. A shadow materialized over Hawke’s shoulder, darkness clinging to its form while it took a monstrous form of scales and talons looming above Hawke.

 _Hawke_.

Fenris didn’t think. He _moved_.

He would never have made it if not for the lyrium in his skin driving him forward, giving him the burst of speed he needed to shove Hawke away from the demon. It was the first time he could be glad of the brands, the power they gave him.

The first time Fenris thought they may have been worth any cost.

Hawke toppled to the side, empty urn falling to the rotted wooden floor. Fenris heard Merrill’s startled cry, the rattle of a bolt sliding into Bianca. He spun on his own foot, unable to reach his sword in time he used the only weapon he had at his disposal.

 _Himself_.

His skin lit with blue light, sending sparks of bright pain to his core while he slammed his fist into the chest of the demon.

At the same time the demon’s talons sliced through his breast plate like it was silk, spearing him with the same fierce determination. Fenris grunted, solidifying his own fist and yanking ichor and guts from within the creature.

It released him with a howl, leaving him to slide to the floor. His hand pressed to the wound in his torso, feeling the hot pulse of sticky blood beneath his fingers.

It always came back to blood, his in particular.

Hawke’s magic tore through the space, knocking the demon back into the altar set up in its honor. Fenris looked up, tried to focus, and found his vision blurring at the corners, darkness hovering at the edges.

He thought he saw Hawke kneeling before him, eyes wild, voice shaking.

“Fenris! _Fenris_!”

Then, nothing but the abyss.

* * *

Fenris didn’t know what _exactly_ woke him.

It could have been the rumbling snoring on his left, rhythmic and almost soothing except for the strangeness of waking to _anyone_ snoring. It could have _also_ been the click and clack of gears being polished, which always meant Varric.

For a moment, he thought they were camping on the Wounded Coast or Sundermount. He was certainly uncomfortable enough to be sleeping on the ground, at any rate, but there was something further away.

The bustle of strange voices, roughly accented Ferelden words slung back and forth, the sound of coughing.

_Darktown. The clinic._

Fenris’ eyes flew open, staring at the gloomy carved ceiling above. He turned his head to the left, glaring at Anders’ form laid out on the nearest cot. _Entirely_ too close to Fenris, in fact.

He would move away from the mage and his blighted snoring, but Fenris had realized what woke him from the fade. It wasn’t the snoring, or the soft sounds of machinery being tended, but the throbbing pain in his abdomen. In the soft, dim light of the clinic he couldn’t make out his own form beneath the sheets, but he knew the injury had been grievous.

He shifted, intent on pulling the sheet covering his flesh down and examining the wound for himself, but Varric’s soothing rasp stopped him.

“Careful, Broody. Hawke just fell asleep.”

Fenris’ gaze flicked to the shadowy shape of the dwarf across the room, his beloved crossbow on his lap, just as Varric jerked his chin to Fenris’ right. He followed the motion to see Hawke sprawled in a rickety chair, long legs akimbo and head thrown back, mouth hanging open.

Fenris’ heart softened in a way only Hawke could inspire and he stilled, looking back towards Varric wordlessly for further explanation.

“Those two just fell asleep, told ‘em I’d keep an eye on you in case you tried to die on us. Again.”

“The demon is-”

Varric waved his concern away easily. “Dust. Or ooze. Whatever demons turn into when your friend shoots him full of so much electricity the whole warehouse looks like a trip through the Fade. And as one of the only dwarves to keep getting dragged on Fade-related adventures, let me assure you I know what I’m talking about.”

“Hawke is a powerful mage.” A frightening statement, at one point in time. It felt less ominous now. Hawke was powerful, it was true, but Hawke was also _just_ and fair and, above all things, _good_.

“You shoulda seen it, Broody.” Varric warmed to his subject, his story, just as easily as Fenris knew he would. “That demon dropped you like a ton of bricks-”

“It did not,” Fenris scoffed.

“It _certainly_ did, right after you heroically sacrificed yourself for our brave protagonist.”

Fenris winced. He could already hear this tale ringing across The Hanged Man and Fenris did not care for that _at all_.

“Hawke drew that pointy staff, slammed it down on the wood, and shouted-”

“That did not happen, dwarf.”

Varric chuckled warmly. “How would you know? You were unconscious, Broody. After we fought off a veritable _army_ of demons, Hawke had to carry you to this clinic and drop you in front of Anders, eyes full of tears while-”

“I have never met a more prolific liar in my life,” Fenris accused darkly. Something in the shadows of Varric’s face shifted, softened.

“The best stories have a kernel of truth in them, you know. I honestly thought Hawke was gonna threaten to light Blondie on fire if he didn’t get you all patched up and back to normal.”

Fenris swallowed, hard. “We are friends.”

A beat of knowing silence that lasted just a bit too long before Varric answered. “Sure you are. _Friends_.”

Varric dropped his gaze back to the bow on his lap, knuckles brushing the wood thoughtfully, before he spoke again. “You know, sometimes you gotta admit what you want before it's too late.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Varric agreed easily. “Just something to consider.”

If he had not been injured, Fenris would stalk out of the clinic and back to Hightown, but that action seemed less than wise. Instead, he simply collapsed back into the cot and stared up at the ceiling.

He did not want to mull the dwarf’s words over in his head, but he couldn’t stop himself from doing so. Varric’s advice swirled in his mind along with that piercing, shattered cry of his name and Hawke’s panicked eyes.

What did Fenris want? What did he _deserve_? He had already hurt Hawke once. Did he have any right to do so again?

But things were different, now. _He_ was different. Perhaps…

“Fenris?” Hawke’s sleep worn voice called. “Are you awake?”

He turned his face back towards Hawke’s, throat tightening at the worry lining their features. “Yes.”

“How are you feeling?” Hawke asked, leaning over the bed. “Are you comfortable? Do you need-”

“I am well.” Fenris interrupted. “And I have you to thank. I am in your debt, again.”

But when Hawke’s relieved smile shone down at him, Fenris felt like he’d never been happier to be so entwined with another person.

Hawke’s joke came easy, even with the pure warmth glittering in those stunning eyes. “You didn’t think you were getting out of going to the Bone Pit that easily, did you?”

**Author's Note:**

> Manka writes it all at: [@cartadwarfwithaheartofgold](https://cartadwarfwithaheartofgold.tumblr.com/)


End file.
